The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning Discussion Thread

Child of the 7th Age and Durelin invite you to play in their game:

The Fellowship of the Fourth Age: A New Beginning

Historical Background -- Mordor

The destruction of the One Ring and the subsequent coronation of Elessar ushered in an era of relative peace for the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. Yet, as Tolkien reiterated many times in his Letters, any victory against evil that happened in Arda before the end of time could only be fleeting and partial because of Man's "quick satiety with good".

While Gondor, Rohan, the Shire, and other lands lying towards the West enjoyed an immediate interlude of justice and prosperity, the same could not be said for Mordor. These lands had been under Sauron's governance for thousands of years, and the resulting devastation, from both a human and ecological perspective, would have been considerable. Tolkien did not leave us a detailed account of what happened in Mordor during this period, but the reader does have an inkling how bad conditions were by the difficulties that Sam and Frodo faced in their journey to Mount Doom.

Mordor faced enormous problems at the end of the War of the Ring: massive slave plantations bordering the Sea of Núrnen, marauding Orcs that could no longer be restrained by Sauron's hand, a shortage of food and water because of problems with pollution and a general breakdown in order, and the curtain of soot and ash that descended after the eruption of Mount Doom. None of these problems magically disappeared with the crowning of Aragorn. Most likely, with the vacuum created by Sauron's departure, rival gangs of Orcs and Men would have fiercely contended for power and land, much like feudal lords in the early middle ages. All of this posed a potential threat to Gondor that Aragorn could not ignore.

~*~

Historical Background -- Nature and Origin of Orcs

Few topics in Middle-earth (or for that matter on the Barrowdowns) have engendered as much controversy as the nature and origin of Orcs. For one of the most recent discussions on this topic, see this thread on Orcs from just a few weeks ago. If we are going to do a story involving Orcs, we probably need to agree on a few main points.

Tolkien's early writings state that Orcs were originally Elves who had been corrupted and defiled by Morgoth in his fortress at Angband. Some later writings reject this idea and instead state that Orcs were descendents of Men who had been corrupted. It's possible to find other places in Tolkien's writings that suggest some Orcs were akin to robots without souls and were literally created out of nothing by Sauron, that the earliest Orcs were descendents of earth and stone, or that some Maia took the form of Orcs.

For the purposes of this story, we will assume that the first Orcs were Elves corrupted by Morgoth but that later Men were also corrupted and turned into Orcs. It seems likely that both Morgoth and Sauron would have taken any edge they could get. We will also assume that Orcs of Mannish descent were definitely mortal, but that the original Elvish Orcs (of which presumably only a few remain) were bound to Arda until the world ends in the same manner as Elves. Elvish Orcs could have been killed in battle and would then have gone to Mandos. Their eventual fate is unknown.

A second controversy centers on how Orcs breed. Are there female Orcs? This story assumes that female Orcs exist. We would guess that, under Sauron and Saruman, female Orcs were confined to breeding colonies. Now, however, with the demise of the former, female Orcs are free to live in the same communities with male Orcs. However, it is likely that the family, as Man or Elf would definite it, simply does not exist among Orcs, at least at the beginning of this story.

A final problem centers on the nature of Orcs. Are Orcs irredeemably bad? Even Tolkien indicated he was unsure about this. This is one of the questions this story raises. No one can say what the answer is for sure, but it would be nice to think that this possibility exists.

Despite Elessar's edict abolishing slavery after the War of the Ring, many plantation overseers in Mordor refused to comply with the law and set themselves up as independent lords. Word has recently come to the King that slaves on the very largest plantation in Nurn have revolted. While the larger attack has been quelled, a number of slave families managed to escape the plantation and join a small band of ex-slaves already hiding out in the southern mountains. Together, these families plan to leave Nurn and establish a new village in the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth, an area with less warfare and feuding, but one that is virtual wilderness.

The message arriving at Minas Tirith requests that the Free Peoples of Middle-earth send representatives who can assist the slaves in making this wilderness journey and establishing a new village. Good fighters are needed to take charge of the march and organize the group to ward off dangers on the trail as well as those with other skills that they are lacking: a healer to care for the sick and wounded, a stonemason, a smith adept in the art of metalcraft, and a farmer to teach them how to grow crops and care for animals. Faced with this urgent request, the King decides to send out a small fellowship representative of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth who will help the slaves of Nurn achieve the new beginning they desire.

There is, however, one unexpected complication. The Easterling strongman in charge of the plantation has not only managed to provoke his own slaves into revolting, but has launched repeated and deadly attacks on a large encampment of Orcs, whom he views as a threat to his power. While the conflict between the landholders and the Orcs is common knowledge, one important detail has escaped the attention of the former slaves and was thus not mentioned to Aragorn. Though most of the Orcs gladly prepare for a massive counterstrike against the Easterling landowners, a small group has quietly rebelled and decided to leave Nurn to establish a new encampment of their own. In the course of this migration, the Orc families initially find themselves following along the same trail as the slaves until the two groups are actually thown together and face a series of crucial decisions for which neither they nor the men have any precedent.

The purpose of the story is to: have the the Mannish and Orcish refugees, along with the representative from the west, journey to a wilderness region where they will attempt to found two new communities.

This means we will know the story is over when: two new communities are established in the southern Plateau of Gorgoroth, or the refugees decide they have no choice but to wage war on each other, despite the attempts of the other Free Peoples to mediate their differences.

The storyline itself or plot covers 50 days. (20 days for the journey and 30 days to begin planting, building shelters, dealing with water retention, etc.)

NOTE:

The journey from the southern mountain range up to the southeastern corner of the Sea of Núrnen and then on across the Lithlad, or Ash Plain, and onto the Plateau of Gorgoroth is 200 miles. Since many would have been on foot, the group could only travel about 16 miles per day (8 hours at 2 m.p.h.). Throwing in several days for getting started plus extra days for the numerous problems encountered along the way, the journey would have taken about 20 days. The other 30 days will be trying to set up the new communities.

~*~

This game requires a time commitment of 12 weeks from us, the game owners, and from the major players.

Child of the 7th Age's character - Noldorin Elf originally of Lindon and now of Rivendell

NAME: Lindir

AGE: Born 1258, Age of Trees.

RACE: Noldorin Elf

GENDER: Male

WEAPON: Lindir bears a well crafted blade with a cunning design of flowers and leaves engraved in silver and surrounded by an inlay of fine jewels. It is a weapon that he himself designed and forged with his own hands under the direction of his father, who was also a talented craftsman. He has had little use for this weapon since the end of the Second Age. By preference, he now uses a hunting knife and a long bow of simple, practical design in making his way from Rivendell to Minas Tirith, Edoras, or the court of Faramir in Ithilien, where he is frequently sent on various missions.

APPEARANCE: He has the face of an artist rather than a warrior, with grey eyes that hold a great depth of sorrow. His features are fine, and he is unusually short for one of the Noldor, standing just under six feet tall. His hair is black and straight, held back from his face in a single braided plait and secured with a simple leather band. His clothes are so plain and lack any elegance that some mistake him from a distance for a Man of common birth. Only an ornate silver brooch of unsurpassed workmanship that graces his shirt hints at his family and artistic heritage. This jewel at his throat is evidently a gift that Lindir holds dear, yet he does not say who gave it to him.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

Lindir is a quiet elf who, in the past, was driven by his love to create beautiful things: weapons, jeweled necklaces, and rings. Over the years, he has become increasing closed mouth and secretive. Lindir's fierce desire to craft objects of beauty was both his great strength and his weakness. Because of his singleminded devotion, he chose not to take a bride. After his return from Eregion (see below), however, he laid aside his skills as an Elven-smith and learned a totally different trade: that of a scout who wandered alone beside the seacoast and into the mountains, hiring out his services to other Elves and Men. He now uses these same skills in the employ of Celeborn, the master of Rivendell since the War of the Ring.

HISTORY:

Lindir’s father was an Elven-smith of Fëanor’s house: Lindir followed in his footsteps. As such, he inevitably became involved in the wars of the First Age, seeing his blades employed in fierce and bloody battles in Beleriand, as well as in the Kinslaying. After the drowning of Beleriand, Lindir had turned from the crafting of weapons to the making of rings and jewels, thinking that it might be preferable to forge objects of beauty rather than destruction. He was perhaps moved by some impulse to make amends for the sorry events of the First Age.

In the Second Age, a time when many of his earlier companions had left the seacoast to journey eastward, Lindir remained in Lindon and joined the remaining Noldor Elves who were ruled by Gil-galad Ereinion. Lindir had been among those smiths who, led by Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor, moved across the Blue Mountains in 750 and founded the city of Eregion under the walls of Moria. These Elves had sought to make amends for earlier evils by helping to forge Rings of Power intended to heal the ills of Middle-earth. At some point, before the fall of Eregion, Lindir had fled back to the coast of Lindon. He generally keeps the events of this period in his life to himself, discussing it with very few. However, it was at this point that he decided not to continue his work as a smith and chose to work as a scout.

More recently, in the year 3021 T.A., Lindir journeyed with his former companions to Himling in order to explore the ruins of Himring, He thought that his time on Middle-earth was drawing to a close and that he should sail back afterwards to the Grey Havens to embark into the West. At the conclusion of his visit to Himling, however, his plans abruptly changed. Maintaining that he had "wasted" too many years, Lindir left the shores of Lindon to serve Celeborn and Elrond's two sons at Rivendell, frequently acting as an emissary to the court at Gondor and Rohan and also to Ithilien. At the start of this story, he is staying in Minas Tirith on personal business to search out information in the archives pertaining to the history of the Elves in Beleriand.

Like his brethren, Aiwendil carries a wooden staff to serve as a tool for channeling power. This staff is crafted of gnarled wood and has many strange and wondrous carvings. In reality, he rarely employs it for any purpose other than helping him manage difficult terrain. On rare occasions he has used the staff to administer someone a hard crack on the head. However, his most powerful “weapon” is his ability to change shapes. Whether or not that skill will figure in this game, I cannot say.

APPEARANCE:

During his stay in Middle-earth, Aiwendil took on the form of an elderly Man, tall and slender but entirely unassuming. The Istar has ice blue eyes and a mop of gray hair streaked with earthen brown that tends to fly off in all directions. In inclement weather, he pulls up his hood for protection but otherwise prefers not to wear a hat. A great bird of prey, generally a hawk or horned owl, can be found perched on his shoulder or wrist, or even atop his head. Sometimes he is followed by flocks of small birds.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

From the beginning, Aliwendil was acutely aware that his powers and intellect did not match up to those of his amazing Istari brethren. Moreover, he lacked Saruman's honeyed words or the natural warmth and grace that Gandalf used to reach out and make friends. By nature shy and earnest, the Istar was not surprised when the inhabitants of Arda overlooked his presence or smiled wryly and scoffed at his seemingly simple nature.

Aiwendil is not good with practical matters. He often gives the appearance of being distracted and confused. For many years, he preferred to turn inward, lost within his own musings. Rivetting his great round eyes on some fascinating animal or tiny plant, the Istar would pour over the mysteries of the natural world, yet be totally oblivious to any Man or Elf who might wander within his presence seeking assistance. His general custom was to wander alone in the woods, far from the troubling concerns of others.

In the past year, for reasons that will be discussed below, the needs and trials of the inhabitants of Arda have become painfully clear to him. He now acknowledges that he was sent here for a reason and that he has an obligation to figure out what that reason is. Aiwendil has always been devoutly loyal to those few he admits to his heart. While his warmth and good intentions are never in question, his spirit is easily buffeted by the toughness of the world. The Istar is determined to do better in his respnsibilities to others, but the path will not be clear or easy.

HISTORY:

STRICTLY CANON: From the earliest days, Aiwendil served in the household of Yavanna helping to safeguard the kelvar and olvar of Arda and, later, caring for the living things in the Gardens of Valinor. Although he did not possess the highest degree of wisdom or knowledge, Yavanna regarded him with affection both for the tenderness of his heart and the steadfastness of his stewardship. Aiwendil was diligent in his duties and found joy in caring for all manner of living things, especially the birds with whom he claimed special kinship.

During the early Third Age, when the Shadow fell over Greenwood, Manwe summoned the Valar to counsel to consider if anything could be done. At Manwe's urging, the Valar agreed to dispatch a number of emissaries chosen from among the Maiar, a group that came to be known as the Heren Istarion or Order of Wizards. Their mission was to cross the sundered seas to the North of Middle-earth and help awaken the Free Peoples to resist Sauron's domination.

After “Curunir” (Saruman) and “Olorin” (Gandalf) were named emissaries to Men and Elves , Yavanna begged Manwe to include Aiwendil so that the kelvar and olvar would be shielded from Sauron's evil ways. When Aiwendil heard these words, he felt that doom had settled upon his head. Long years had passed since he had last walked in Arda. Its ways and people were strange to him. He loved the peaceful setting of Yavanna's gardens where death never reared its head and desired to remain there. Only out of loyalty to the Queen of the Earth did he accede to her request to depart with the other Istari in the year 1000 of the Third Age.

Before the great ship sailed, Manwe touched the mind of each Istar and said what was expected of them and spoke the names by which each would be known. Each was allotted a different task. Garbed in a hooded robe of earthen brown, Aiwendil was given the name "Radagast" which some say refers to the ruddy color of the earth. No one knows the exact words of this conversation or whether Aiwendil still remembers the path that was marked out for him.

The Istaris' task was fraught with hardship. By assuming physical bodies, the Istari set aside their natural protection. For the first time, they felt pangs of hunger and thirst and could even be slain. Confusion, fears and cares pressed down upon their heads; these could dim the wisdom they had brought from the West. Tolkien describes this dimming of knowlege as a "descending curtain". If any Istar departed from his appointed mission, the thicker and darker the curtain became.

Few in Arda recognized the true nature of these messengers, since the wizards were counseled to conceal their identity. Neither were the Istari permitted to utilize their powers to control or dominate others, but were told to walk quietly and speak softly, sowing seeds of resistance within the hearts of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.

SPECULATIONS BEYOND CANON:

After arriving at the Havens, Aiwendil lived in isolation in Mirkwood, preferring not to witness the carnage that afflicted so many in such difficult times. He occupied his days studying birds and beasts, dreaming of the time when he could return to the Gardens of Valinor and again find peace. Yet, strange to say, the more he dreamed, the more distant the shores of the West became, as if slipping away under some hazy shadow. It was only when he visited his one true friend, Beorn the Skin-changer, who lived nearby, that he actually heard the voice of Queen Yavanna and dreamed of the white shores and far green country.

Although Aiwendil never embraced evil, he forgot why he had been sent to Middle-earth. He still bore the great staff in his right hand, but it hung lifeless, a hollow shell of broken wood. Aiwendil’s's mastery of shifting shapes and hues had been held in high regard by the Ainur, yet now he found himself trapped within his body, unable to change to another form. He could still make out meaning within the voices of birds and animals, and sometimes, on a misty night, the winds blew out of the West to clear the clouds away. Glancing up, he would glimpse a great bird of fire shooting through the stars. Part of him would remember some distant secret that he suspected was important, but the image would quickly fade.

The Istar’s activities during the War of the Ring are not reported. When Gandalf requested assistance, he helped in whatever small ways he could. Saruman came to despise Aiwendil and boasted of using him to further his own aims. At the end of the troubles, Aiwendil met one last time with his old friend Gandalf at the home of Tom Bombadil. No one knows what was discussed that day, but when the ship left the Havens on 29 September, 3021, Aiwendil was not on it.

For eighteen years, Aiwendil continued to live in Mirkwood carrying on as he had before. As his work cleansing the forest drew to a close, he made two important changes. First, he took a servant into his employ called Rôg, a pleasant fellow about whom he knew very little. The two were to become close friends. Secondly, the Istar travelled to Harad, ostensibly to track down a rare bird species. While there, a great change occurred. Aiwendil became friends with a young woman named Ráma, who came to him for advice. For the first time, he used his wits and power to help someone in need: assisting a native tribe throw off the yoke of an oppressive chieftain. In so doing he regained at least some confidence in himself as well as his ability to shift shapes.

The old man sat huddled at his writing desk, spluttering and fuming under his breath as he fixed his attention on the paper in front of him. The message had been written on the finest parchment. At the top of the sheet he could see the seal of the King. In his intense concentration, Aiwendil had bent his upper body so close to the letter that his nose almost grazed the tabletop. The Istar had piercing blue eyes and a mop of dishevelled hair with grey locks falling forward into his face. An owl perched on his left shoulder and occasionally leaned over to nibble affectionately at his ear.

Rereading the message for the twenty-third time, Aiwendil sat upright, waggled his finger in the air, and glared across the room, trumpeting for the attention of his friend. He directed his words at an Elf who stood by the window gazing down on the buildings of Minas Tirith. The latter was called Lindir. He wore a travel stained cloak and plain brown breeches. Anyone observing this unassuming figure from a distance could easily have mistaken him for a Mannish farmer or even a tradesman. The only telltale hint of his origin was an intricate silver brooch clasped near his throat, a piece of amazing craftsmanship passed down from countless ages before.

The Elf had initially paid no attention to Aiwendil's obvious consternation. He was clearly used to his companion's whims. Now the Istar's voice rose sharp and insistent, "It says there is to be a Fellowship to rescue the soul of Mordor." Aiwendil fixed his eyes on Lindir and grimly shook his head, "Tell me. What have I got to do with Mordor? Does this assignment make sense? I know nothing about the slaves in Mordor. Plus, this is a mission for an army of young men, not for an old birdwatcher like myself."

Lindir's response was affectionate, almost as if he was humoring a child, "But you have just spent the past hour telling me how you found meaning in Harad and had decided to stay in Middle-earth to see if you could help. Frankly, I can think of no one in Arda who needs help more than these slaves of Mordor. The conditions there are appalling. They are in desperate need of someone to guide and protect them."

"Yes, that is the problem," the Istar countered. "There is this little matter about protection. Even in Harad I did not have to face a crowd of angry Orcs."

"It is dangerous. I cannot deny that. But if it makes you feel any better, I also received an invitation from the King, not an hour before, and I intend to say 'yes'."

"You too? What are we to have.... a First Age reunion? A pack of greybeards turned loose on the worst problems in the Reunited Kingdom? At least you look to be younger and in better shape than I am, though you lack the looks of Legalos."

At this point Lindir grinned broadly at his companion. But before the Elf could respond, Aiwendil had continued, "Couldn't the King have come up with some young blood? Or perhaps Aragorn has decided that we two are expendable." There was a wisp of a smile on the Istar's face.

"Aiwendil, I am ashamed of you! Look at this list. There is no lack of young healthy folk in our party. I expect that Aragorn felt a little seasoning was needed to keep these enthusiastic adventurers from running off a cliff. And surely the slaves we go to help could also benefit from a cool, sage head. I, for one, am looking forward to this. You are going, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am going," spluttered the old man, almost sounding offended. "How can there be a Fellowship without an Istar? And you didn't think I'd let you go off on your own with something as important as this?"

"But what about your manservant, that young fellow you speak so highly of? Is he also coming?"

"That is the interesting part," mused Aiwendil. "The last time I was at court, Rôg had the chance to speak with Elessar. The King talked with him some time and was so impressed that he has added his name to the list of adventurers quite apart from my own. I cannot say why for sure. Rôg has some unusual gifts. But I would suspect it is his knowledge of Harad and the East that impressed the King. The largest group of slaves in Mordor hail from those parts, and most men of Gondor know little of their ways. In any case, whatever Elessar's reason, it is a wise choice. Perhaps Rôg will come by before we leave and let us know his decision."

Lindir raised his eyebrows sharply. "And you were the one who said you knew nothing about the slaves of Mordor?"

"Perhaps I exaggerated a bit," the Istar responded drolly. "In any case, I will surely know more a month from now than I do today. We must leave in the morning. One other thing....it would be best if there was no mention of my background or homeland. For all practical purposes, I am an old Mannish teacher who will be teaching slaves their sums and their letters."

"But what if you have to show your hand one day?"

"I'll deal with that then." With that terse answer, Aiwendil went over to the shelf, pulled down a book of maps, and began tracing out the route with his finger.

Elessar set down the letter on his desk, walked over to the window, and stared off into the distance. Here at the summit, he could look down and see the gleaming white towers and six lower tiers that characterized Minas Tirith, the chief city of Gondor. The streets were far more crowded than they had been a short while ago, since the city's population continued to grow. This was only one of the many accomplishments in the past ten years. The ancient lands of Gondor and Arnor had been reclaimed and reunited. The Hobbits of the Shire, the Elves of Greenwood, and the Ents of Isengard could be counted among the many Free Peoples of Middle-earth who enjoyed complete self government with freedom to maintain their local customs. Representatives from the king had even managed to reach a rough understanding with their long-time enemies, the Easterlings and Haradrim.

Despite the return of peace and prosperity, one troubling problem remained. Early in Elessar's reign, the king had declared that the lands of Nurn be gifted to the slaves of Mordor. This edict had proven difficult to enfOrce. In the region south of the Sea of Núrnen, most of the slaves had revolted and secured their freedom, setting up fortified villages where they could defend themselves against Orc attacks and till their fields in relative peace. In the region north of the Sea, the situation was different. With Sauron's restraining hand removed, local strongmen with armed retinues continued to repress the slaves and deny them freedom. Eager to extend their authority and gain more land, these tyrants engaged in constant warfare both among themselves and against the Orcs who roamed throughout the region. Gondor had sent soldiers to try and topple these petty rulers, and the troops had scored an easy victory. But the moment the armies were dispatched back home, another strongman emerged and reasserted control over the slaves.

Elessar had once hoped that the slaves could flee the plantations and find refuge in the fortified villages to the south. Given the chaos that dominated the area, it was very possible for slaves to slip off into the night and simply disappear. But the neighboring communities were too young and fragile, and lacked sufficient stores of food to offer a home to more than a handful of deserters. What was needed was a safe haven for the refugees to go, someplace where they could begin a new life. They could not remain in the area near the Sea of Núrnen or even on the Ash Plain to the north because of the presence of numerous gangs of Orcs. More than one group of escapees had managed to elude the dogs and posses of the slaveholders only to perish at the hands of Orcs. The slaves of Mordor were now a forgotten problem that no one had the knowledge or heart to resolve.

For the first time, however, after reading the missive, Elessar felt a tiny glimmer of hope. The letter, for all its rough and ragged appearance, had been written by a slave leader who understood the problems of his people and had some notion how to solve them. Though the message had been penned by one who could barely read or write, its meaning was unmistakable. A group of fifty slaves had raised an armed rebellion, managing to escape and take refuge in caves along the southern mountain range. There, they had been greeted by fifteen other men, the beleaguered remnants of an earlier band of run-away slaves.

Both groups agreed they could not stay in their temporary shelter. The ex-slaves were insistent that the situation was too dangerous, since brutal Orc attacks had recently become a frequent occurrence. Yet where could the refugees go? It was one of the new escapees who came up with an audacious plan to head north to the Sea and then across the Ash Plain heading for the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth and attempting to establish a village there. The petitioner had written this letter, humbly requesting that Gondor send representatives from the Free Peoples of Middle-earth to help protect them on the journey, individuals who could also teach them the skills needed to forge a new community.

Aragorn shook his head in amazement. It was at once a bold and utterly perilous suggestion. As far as the King knew, no party had made it across the Ash Plain in recent years. Roving bands of Orcs and other outlaws made the passage dangerous as well as unnamed shadows that had been unknowingly left behind when Sauron departed the earth. At the very least, the journey would be a challenge. Even if they made the crossing, there was no certainty of success at the end. The Plateau of Gorgoroth was uninhabited, a veritable wilderness. Farming would be difficult at best, since there were no substantial bodies of water nearby.

Still, if the feat could be done, if a new community could be established, the possibilities were enormous. Freed slaves from other plantations would finally have a place to go. Aragorn conjectured that, once the village was well established, it could even send couriers back to encourage other slaves to revolt, guiding them across the Ash Plain to the safe refuge that lay beyond. Half-way camps could even be established. One village could multiply and eventually become a whole network of thriving outposts. So much suffering could be avoided! The image was simply too appealing for Elessar to resist.

The King felt a strange yearning to join the group himself. What an exciting and worthwhile endeavor it would be. But that was no longer possible, since his own responsibilities as well as the presence of his beloved wife and children required him to stay in Minas Tirith. This adventure would have to go to others.

Aragorn quietly began humming the tune of an old ballad as he wrote out the orders for each individual whom he would ask to join the group. Dwarves, Elves, Men, and Hobbits--they must all be included. This might be the last time that all the Free Peoples were called together in a common goal of such great importance. The soul of Mordor was at stake. It would take a fellowship--the Fellowship of the Fourth Age--to rise to such a challenge and guarantee a new beginning for the people of Mordor.

_______________________

Child of the 7th Age's minor character

NAME: Makdush

AGE: 35

RACE: Uruk-hai

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS:

Makdush bears a short, broad sword and a bow of yew. His skill with the sword is better than his command of the bow. His shield is embossed with the white hand of Saruman as is his helm. He wears a vest of chain mail protecting his upper body.

APPEARANCE:

Makdush is typically Uruk in appearance with dark skin, muscular legs, and large hands. He stands about 5' 10", which is as tall as many men. As one of the privileged Uruk-hai, Makdush wears a tunic and cloak that are still in relatively good shape.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

Makdush is fierce and cunning in battle and more intelligent than the average orc. He is used to being in charge and can be extremely disdainful of any orc whom he suspects of weakness. Priding himself on being one of the "fighting Uruk-hai", Makdush generally looks down on other orcs. Like many Uruk-hai, he gives these lesser orcs the insulting name of "snaga" or slave when speaking of them. This display of arrogance can be both a weakness and a strength. Makdush has absolute confidence in his own abilities but, by thinking himself infalliable, he can also be blind to both the strengths and suspicions of those who are under his command.

HISTORY:

Makdush was one of the chief orc commanders under Lord Saruman at Isengaard . With the defeat of the orcs at the Battle of the Hornburg and the subsequent overthrow of Isengaard, he was forced to travel to Mordor, joining up with Sauron's forces. He was not the only one to shift allegiance in this way; a number of the Uruk-hai found their way to Mordor. Although Makdush is now in charge of a small unit, he strongly resents that he can no longer yield as much authority as he did while serving as a powerful commander under Saruman.

Makdush's decision to join the rebels was entirely motivated by his desire to become the leader of a larger band of orcs. While he is not happy that the rebel band contains so many females and low-class orcs, he believes that he will eventually be able to assert his own control over these weaklings. He is smart enough to be patient. Makdush knows he must first pretend to get along with the others, while secretly building a base of support among the few rebels who are Uruk-hai. With their backing and by recruiting orcs they meet on the trail, he will eventually take over the group and enlarge its numbers. If anyone tries to get in his way, he will not hesitate to slay them.

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Child of the 7th Age's post - Makdush

The sky was still dark when Makdush set out on the path to join the rebels. He had decided not to wait for the females or the other orcs, but to leave early and make his way to the meeting spot where the advance guard was supposed to be.

Makdush's thoughts centered on the battle that was expected to take place in the next day or so. He regretted missing the chance to crack open a few heads and pick up some booty. Still, there was no use staying in camp. Makdush had to admit that no matter how many men he killed in battle, the higher-ups in Nurn were unlikely to reward him in the way he wanted. With Saruman, it had been different. He had ruled over a throng of orcs.

If only the Uruk-hai had been victorious at the Hornburg, things might have turned out differently. By leaving Nurn, he could at least stop being a water-boy for the current commander's favorites. Grimly reflecting on his situation, he muttered to himself, "It's better that I die on the trail than submit to such a disgraceful fate."

As Makdush strode along the path and came to one of those rare groves of scrub trees that grew in Nurn, he spied the advance guard standing in the distance. At first he thought it might be one of his Uruk-hai comrades, since the orc looked to be the same height as a man. But on closer inspection he saw that the guard was Ishkar, nothing more than a common orc.

Best be friendly and say nothing to insult him, at least for now. He can be prickly. He fancies himself as good as a Uruk. But how a common orc can grow this tall I'll never know.

Out loud, he merely barked, "Ishkur, it's me....Makdush. The others will be coming soon. Once they're here, we need to move out at once."

Appearance: Very tall for a human, he stands at about six feet, four inches tall. He is very thin, mostly built of lean muscle, not having had much to eat in years. His skin, a beautiful creamy brown, is barely seen through all the grime. His eyes are hazel, with specks of yellow often clearly visible among the soft brown. His hair is thick and curly black, and is usually tied back, or sometimes let loose, with only a band around his head to keep it out of his eyes a bit. He wears a worn shirt and pants, and scraps of rough leather armour strapped over that: a pair of pauldrons, a vambrace on his left arm, a gauntlet on his left hand, and a pair of cuisses, as well as boots. He wears a vambrace and gauntlet only on his left arm and hand because he lost his right arm from just above the elbow down. So that it stays out of his way, he ties the arm of his shirt around the stub.

Personality: Khamir is a man who trusts no one but himself. He has endured so many things that have made him loathe so many, and it has only really been his hatred that has kept him alive for so long. Ideas of revenge are very attractive to him, and he believes strongly in concepts such as ‘an eye for an eye.’ Overall, he has also has a deep sense of justice, though it has been obscured slightly after spending so many years in the darkest place in the Middle-earth. He is looked upon as the leader of a gang of ex-slaves who scavenge the Ash-plains of Mordor. He is not much of a leader, nor is he very eloquent, but he is followed. He learned the Common Tongue as a boy, having been brought up in a fairly well to do household, and is not at all unintelligent. He simply chooses not to speak most of the time.

History: A Southron, born just a few miles north of Umbar, Khamir did not desire to join Mordor, refusing to ever fight alongside anyone but his fellow men. He had no love for Gondor or any of the other peoples of Middle-earth, but he was fiercely loyal to his own people, and believed that becoming Sauron’s minions was the end to the Haradrim’s power and independence. Because he would not willingly join the ranks under the Dark Lord’s command, he was made a slave when he was sixteen years old. His own father was the one who handed him over as a supposed traitor. His younger friend Beloan was enslaved along with him, as he shared the same ideals and also tended to follow Khamir’s lead in those days. He and Beloan were made slaves and worked on the plantations for several years before the defeat of Sauron. After this defeat, the two were able to escape from the plantations, along with many others; but, unlike many others, they were never recaptured. They joined up with a few other ex-slaves, and working as a team (though not always in the best of terms), they were able to scrounge up enough food and water for them to survive, if very hungrily. Mostly they are forced to and choose to steal. After he was praised for his bravery when he went even to the Mountain to look for water, the group of ex-slaves grew until he became the undeclared leader of a full out gang that set up base in the southern range of the Ephel Dûath. They make regular missions to different plantations that remain under the charge of both Orcs and Men. Their last mission met with disaster, leaving their numbers lower than they had been in almost a year: fifteen. The dynamics of the group were a little different even before this catastrophe, with Beloan, who was always Khamir’s “right-hand man” becoming more and more of a second (and not necessarily at all secondary) leader, as his skills, charisma, and decision-making abilities have clearly matured further than Khamir’s likely ever will.

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Durelin’s post – Khamir

The slaves snuck glances as the boy was brought back out to the fields. He had been gone for only minutes, but the rest of the slaves had been at the mercy of the whip if they even thought of pausing in their work while they were forced to listen to his screams. What they had done to the child the overseer would have liked to have done to all the slaves, but the survival rate was not good enough to risk losing so many of the laborers. The plantation owner would have his heartstrings for a necklace if he ever put his power and wealth at such risk. Neither was very abundant in Mordor since the defeat of Sauron, particularly wealth. Those who had any wealth or power were those who lived without the constant worry of what to fill their stomachs with. And who had control of the few sources of water.

The boy’s mother put herself at great risk, leaping forward to get to her son, dropping her work. The Orc who dragged the boy out to the fields kicked her down onto her hands and knees. There she groveled and begged just to hear that her son was alright, even though she knew he wasn’t and never would be. She had no hope for his future. She felt terrible guilt for even having given birth to him. He had not deserved it. Her son was completely silent. He had been since even before they brought him out.

“Tell the sow you’re alright and get her to shut up.” The overseer and the Orc holding the boy howled with grating laughter. The boy turned his head to look at his mother. There was a moment when the two’s eyes met and the boy opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His lips moved, but no words were formed. No words, no sound was heard. His mother collapsed to the ground, wailing, not rising even for the stomping and kicking of the other guards, so consumed by her grief. Her son’s tongue had been ripped out, and his vocal cords removed or made unusable through a procedure involving a hot iron. The mother cried and screamed as two guards, one a Man and one an Orc, forcibly pulled her up and dragged her toward the rough shed. She would be taken care of in much the same way, but she did not cry for herself.

The two had been among those who had tried to escape during the short-lived rebellion of the desperate slaves against their master. Mother and son had probably tasted some kind of freedom for a few hours, but they had been recaptured and were being punished and used as tyrannical symbols of fear because of the forbidden fruit that had bitten from. They had not been alone as escapees, though. There were of course others who had shared and would share similar fates, but there were also those who had made it to the mountains. The looming natural barricade of the mountain range seemed to mock them, and yet they saw the peaks as soaring freedom. Some actually planned to scale the mountains and escape to the world beyond; others simply wanted to get as far from the plantation as they could, and toward the southern range of the Ephel Dûath was as good a direction as any that were not back.

Four days after the rebellion, fifty-six of the escapees had collected themselves into a group, looking for others who had escaped and anyone who they could call an ally. Few, as they approached the mountains, actually considered climbing them, no matter how nice they knew or had heard the world beyond them was. For several days, the mountains acted as a hiding place for the fifty slaves that still lived, and become more of a cage than ever. But on the seventh night after their escape, they woke up to find themselves surrounded. Luckily, their stalkers were allies, and useful ones: a gang of ex-slaves, free for varying numbers of years, and staying alive mostly through theft from their former masters. Fierce fighters and superb survivalists, they brought more useful skills to the group. Some of them were truly thieves and killers, but they all had or remembered having family in various forms. They welcomed more hands, even if it meant more mouths to feed. And the two groups discovered quickly, if they had not known it from the start, that there was really very little separating them: both were more than ready for change.

Most had heard, though at least a year later than they should have, that Nurn actually belonged to them. Several years after Elessar’s declaration, word had spread to practically every being in Mordor that, according to the King of Gondor, the slaves were free. And yet they were still being whipped, chained, and treated as animals in the very land they were supposed to own. It was that knowledge that had given the slaves enough hope to risk rebellion, and it was what pushed them now to journey across Mordor to the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. A new wilderness meant a new beginning.

Khamir sat outside the caves in which the rest of the camp slept, the pitch black of night not intimidating in the least, and the crisp rushing of the river not loud to his ears. It was his watch. Every night, he had the last watch. It was just his way, and very few liked to stand in his way. He knew that the night around him could betray him at any moment, but he sat calmly, resting his mind in dreams without sleep. So many nights he had sat up in the same way amongst the sharp rocks at the base of the mountains. What made this night any different? For one thing, the company was different. There were now sixty-four men, women, and children sleeping nearby. It was no longer just the gang, and they no longer only had to worry about themselves. More was not necessarily better, but this group…they brought hope, something that Khamir had long given up on. It felt good to have it back.

He knew he was happier than he had been in years, though he did not smile. He knew the journey ahead would be the roughest he had ever taken, and he feared the numbers they might lose. He knew he had never had to figure out how to feed sixty-five mouths before, and hoped someone else had leadership in mind. He knew all of this, and yet he found peace lingering somewhere in the night air. Very soon he would be able to see the sun inching its way up the horizon. Perhaps it was hope of such a sight that kept him still. He knew hope was a powerful force.

But what he did not know was that, miles away, that same force drove a group shockingly similar to his own. The Orcs, the cruel masters, the savage monsters, the mindless followers of Sauron…they had families that they cared for. And they knew that it was time Nurn was abandoned, along with the old ways. They sought a new way, a new home, and a new beginning. Fifteen Orcs, male and female, young and old, would find a fresh wilderness just as attractive as sixty-five men, women, and children would. Neither knew they had dreamed the same dream, and neither would believe it if they were told so.

But if hope could be shared, why not a journey, a land? Why not a new beginning?

That morning, Khamir found what he could to write a letter that would show just how hopeful recent events had made him. He planned to write to the King of Gondor himself. It was he, Aragorn, Elessar, who had not forgotten the slaves. Perhaps this would be just another reminder? Was it a cry for help, a beseeching of aid, a simple report of the situation? Khamir found himself unable to write a single word for almost an hour, but when he finally started to write, the letter became all three of those things. He told of the slaves’ escape, of he and his fourteen men’s troubles, and of their plan to start anew together. He also told of the difficulties they faced daily, and how they would only double if they ventured to leave the safety of the caves and to a complete wilderness. The word ‘help’ was not there, but it was in every way implied. The letter was given to a trader heading back to Minas Tirith, and Khamir found himself praying for the first time.

Now all they had to do was wait in hope for some kind of answer: preferably one that did not come only in writing.

Weapons: A large double bladed and an even larger single-bladed axe, hung one on top of the other on his back.

Appearance: 4’ 4” tall, Vrór has long, thick hair that can only be called orange hanging down only about an inch or two below his shoulders. Wavy and full, it is beautiful hair that many would say was wasted on the Dwarf. His beard is equally as thick, and has almost as much wave to it. It falls down to his thighs, just a few inches about his knees, making it longer than he keeps the hair on his head. Stocky, with broad shoulders even for a Dwarf, he is in every way a rock, his tough leathery skin, slightly tanned and clearly weathered, attesting to his strength and respectable age. Wrinkles crease his forehead and around his mouth from innumerable smiles. His eyes are small and beady, grey, a little too close together, and framed by considerably bushy eyebrows. His nose is rather large and wide, his lips moderately thick and as weathered as the rest of his skin, and his chin small and round. He normally wears a long dark grey tunic, black pants, black boots, and a black belt, and has a baldric to hold his axes on his back and a long chainmail hauberk for those dangerous times.

Personality: A fierce warrior as most of his people are, he is also fiercely loyal and loving. He is not one to ever give up on anything. He is a surprisingly cheery person, and though he is quick to temper and his rage can be shocking, it is quick to depart. He loves having a plan, and dislikes spontaneity, and is likely to explode into one of his quick bursts of anger if ‘the plan’ is interrupted or ruined for any reason. But he tends to be a bit of a problem solver, though he always refuses to take the easy route. Many of his tendencies come from his work as a craftsman: he knows that quality is the most important thing, and feels that if the job is not done correctly, with the greatest care, and does not yield the best product it can, then it might as well have not been done at all, and surely should have been done properly by himself. Vrór is always very proud of his work, though he waits for the right opportunity to show such pride (at least, the right opportunity in his opinion).

History: Born in Erebor a little less than a decade after the rebuilding of Dale, Vrór was accustomed to ‘other folk,’ particularly Men, from the time he was born. He grew up in a very large family, with seven brothers and sisters. As the fourth child, and the third son, he was inexplicably a middle child. And with ten people in the family, it was hard to him to feel really special. He and his brothers were apprenticed as stonemasons one after another, of course following in their father’s footsteps. His sisters were apprenticed as silversmiths, as their father would not have them be but simple housewives. Their mother never learned a tradeskill until she met her husband, who was exuberant about teaching her how to work with stone. Vrór, though, began to dabble in metalworking along with stonemasonry, finding it a good way to branch off from the family. He certainly loved his nine close relatives, but he found their whole way of things rather smothering sometimes. There were practically endless possibilities for him in Erebon and in Dale. He worked side-by-side with Men craftsmen, and once an Elf. His father held a more traditional view of Elves, but his mother often told her children stories of the Children of Ilúvatar behind his back, and, really, Vrór is more curious about them than anything else. A few years after the destruction of the Ring and the defeat of Sauron, even more possibilities opened up for the Dwarves. Elessar, the King of Gondor returned to his throne, called upon all the Free Peoples to help rebuild. And so Vrór ended up in Minas Tirith, leaping on the opportunity of such abundant and challenging work, as well as the opportunity to work in such a grand city, and to do his own small part in the reconstruction and renewal.

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Durelin's post - Vrór

“Oi, watch that end of it!”

Two men were hoisting up a block of stone to find its place among the hundreds of other blocks that were almost seamlessly sealed together to form a great wall. Above them, the Tower of Ecthelion gleamed in the sunlight. Sweat glistened on their brow, and their skin was a soft brown from all the time they had spent in the sun the past few weeks. Working under the command of Vrór, they had received very little time out of it. But they did not grudge the Dwarf for it. He was just as hard working as any of them, if not more.

And in testament to this, Vrór was of course hard at work with hammer and chisel, shaping a chunk of marble that had begun as a block and was now far from cubic. Turned away from the two men pulling up the stone, he had caught out of the corner of his eye the block slipping to one side in its harness.

“So he has eyes somewhere behind that mass of hair,” the one muttered.

“And ears, too!” came a quick response from the Dwarf. It came as a gruff bark, grating with what many might call anger, but the two workers knew better. The one only rolled his eyes, while the other tried and failed to stifle laughter.

Vrór smiled as he heard the stone block clack safely into position, but did not pause for a moment in his work. He seemed to know exactly where to make the next chisel, and truly, he did. He had drawn out models and blueprints and charts, and even carved out a smaller version of this creation. Perhaps he wasn’t the speediest of workers, but it was obvious to anyone that he got the job done, and the finished product was perhaps even better than one had expected. “It always does look better up to scale,” he would say, obvious in his modesty, and perhaps even more obvious in his pride.

So engrossed in his work, he did not notice when he was approached from behind. “Excuse me, sir?” came a voice obviously nervous about disturbing a Dwarf in his work. “I have a message for you, sir.”

Putting down his tools, Vrór turned to look at the man. He seemed fairly young, still rather rosy cheeked, and probably had just recently lost his baby fat. Looked to be shaping up to be a fine looking young man, though. He was dressed in the fancy attire of one of the King’s servants. The White Tree emblazoned on his tunic, shining practically brighter than the sun with the light reflection off it. The Dwarf grunted.

“They’ve even got the messengers all dressed up these days? Well, I’ll be. I suppose this,” he gestured with his hand only slightly, but in a way that obviously pointed to the man’s entire outfit, “is a sign of prosperity.”

He paused for a moment, and was met only by silence from the messenger, though the workers found his words rather amusing. The one that could not resist laughter before didn’t even try to this time. The other spoke up, “Gondor will only get richer, but I’ll always be stuck with these linens.”

Vrór grunted again. The young man in front of him coloured slightly, and seemed to feel more awkward by the second. The Dwarf smiled at him, shaking his head. “We’re only teasing, lad. I’m surprised to see such a young man already in such a fine position,” he said with kindness and sincerity. “Now, what have you got for me?”

The young man smiled back, and with a short bow, he handed a piece of paper with the King’s seal to Vrór. “Well, now, don’t I feel special,” the Dwarf remarked, seeing the seal.

He opened the letter, and, as he read it, his eyes widened. It was indeed from the King himself, and… A Fellowship? Vrór let out a snort. And he supposed he was the token Dwarf for this venture. It noted his skill as a stonemason, and now he grunted at the paper before him. He scanned the page. No, nothing about his metalwork. Reaching the end of the message, he let out a sigh, shaking his head.

“Well, lads,” he called out to the two Men who had paused in their work, both still surprised that they had not been yelled at to get back to it, “do you think you’ll be alright without me?”

Weapons: He was recently given a knife, with a thin blade of relative length – a stabbing weapon with a rather dull sides but a sharp point.

Appearance: A good height for his age, about 5’ 6”, long and lean. Dark hair, thick and curly, it sticks both up and out on his head, with always at least a few curls hanging down in front of his eyes that he has to try and push away. His eyes are a dark, muddy brown, and his skin is approximately the same colour. He wears rough pants, and only sometimes bothers with any kind of shirt. He always ties a cloth around his upper right arm, though, to hide the brand there.

Personality: His hopes and dreams have not been fully crushed by the few years he spent as a slave. He has a desire to make himself known, to be respected by many. He has a fierce hatred for Easterlings, as both the owner of the plantation he was enslaved on and the overseer he was most often punished by were from the East. Like most Southerners, he doesn’t think much of Gondor, either, and certainly has no love for Orcs. He likes to think of himself as a loner, but hates being alone, and regrets it when he shrugs off the offer of company. Overall, it can be said that his bark is much worse than his bite.

History: Adnan was a slave for three years on a plantation after being captured with his mother and four older siblings. His father’s death and his family’s descent into utter poverty made them prime targets for the remaining slavers who did business in Mordor. He has not seen any of his family since the day they were captured.

WEAPONS (No magical, super-hero, mithril weapons. Just good solid Middle-earth weapons and armor only that is appropriate to the race of the character and the time period.):

APPEARANCE:

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: (No half-Elven characters. No mixed-type characters. No super-heroes. No assassins. No one all powerful, martial arts proficient, or having any magical traits. Just regular characters with normal abilities for their races only):

HISTORY:

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A first post should accompany your Major Character

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For your Minor Character, you need only a brief Character Bio, no post.

a few more inhabitants of Mordor could possibly be taken on if someone is dying to get into the game.

NOTE:

Slave escapee - one of the group of 50 people who just escaped from the plantation and have run down to the river to hide in the caves.

Ex-slave - one of a group of about 15 people who escaped from a plantation some time ago. They have already been hiding in the caves for a while, but their numbers have been severely decimated by frequent Orc attacks. They are the ones who advise the slave escapees that it is not wise to stay in the area, and they must all find someplace to go.

The two slave groups will be posting together from the beginning of the RPG

Posters are encouraged to carry one minor character, generally one of the inhabitants of Mordor. You are free to pick and choose. However, if the list become too lopsided and everyone requests one character type (Orcs, for example), we may ask some writers to consider a different choice.

Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.

Posts: 5,228

Oh please, oh please, oh please!

Can you guess? I've got something to beg of you.

Child, having heard that my internet time will be limited this summer somewhat, thought that I shouldn't take on a minor character. In fact, you pretty much ordered me not to. But I'd really, really, really like to take on a young boy. Can I? Please? If I'm doing bad and you don't think that I'm keeping up well enough and that I shouldn't be having him, I'll kill him off.

You see, there was a young chap on the baseball team that my dad and I coached this year who would make a really cool character, but he had problems, so the character would have to come from a place that would give him such problems. (Don't be alarmed, Pio, they're not evil or improper problems, if you catch my meaning.) And coming from a slave plantation would certainly do it to him. Will you consider it?

Concerning my main character - I wrote her bio up at work, but I'm at home right now, so I'll be able to post it tomorrow. I don't have a first post yet. I'll be talking with Tevildo a little before I write that, but I doubt it will be too long before I have the first post.

Thanks for your time! I'm looking forward to it!

-- Folwren

__________________
A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. - C.S. Lewis

APPEARANCE: 5’6”; black hair; dark brown eyes; olive toned skin; softly muscled, lean frame; a little stooped when he does not remember to straighten his posture, from long hours spent hunched over scrolls and tomes in libraries, and over his own notebooks; a pleasant, though not memorable face; long, tapering fingers with well kept nails; an ink stain and thick callous on his right middle finger indicating where the quill is grasped. There is a small, flat, ovoid shaped gold stud in his upper left ear, nearly hidden where the top of ear folds over on itself like a sea shell.

Prefers loose clothing in dark, earthen tones, browns and blacks – breeches and tunics worn with boots if necessary in the north and western climes. Otherwise bare-footed. Dark brown hooded cape for protection against the elements. A number of large handkerchiefs are crammed in various pockets of the cape, most of them a yellow color.

Carries an ebony walking stick; small hand ax used for gathering fuel for fire; an over the shoulder leather pouch which, among other items, holds several leather bound notebooks and one small chapbook; a quill case; inkstone and blotter sand; at his belt he wears a small leather sheath with a small, sharp double edged knife – used mainly for sharpening quills or cutting up vegetables.

PERSONALITY: He has a pleasant temperament, and a dry sense of humor. Good listener, feels no desire to talk one’s ear off. A slow, methodical worker; does not like to feel ‘hurried’. He prefers to evaluate all sides of a problem before settling on an answer. In a dangerous situation, he would be more likely to take cover than fight. Though, as yet, nothing has pushed him to the point where his mettle might be tested.

Dependable, intelligent. Used to the wandering life. A whiz with a cooking pot and any edible vegetation and small game. Can start a fire under any conditions. He is a man of many useful talents.

HISTORY: Born in TA 2999. For five years his home was in the wide, broad valley bounded by the lower limb of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East; the dense forest on their west and east; and the arid steppe that pushed its way south and east, descending to the shores of the seas. His family were members of a small nomadic tribe who wandered this sparsely populated area, trading with other tribes in the vicinity, often venturing as far West as the outskirt cities of Rhûn. His father made the small, serviceable axes of the sort that graced his own belt. His mother wove colorful baskets, useful for many things in the peoples of that region’s daily lives, and useful, too, her larger ones, for burial.

He and his older sister, two years his senior, enjoyed a fairly carefree life during this time. Though sometimes he and she were pressed into service for gathering the fibrous materials for baskets, or pumping the bellows when their father was at work on the ax heads, for the most part, they were free to roam. And best they loved the forests with their scrubby, green needled trees, roots gripped firm on the rocky ground. . . and the wildlife, the abundant and most intriguing wildlife. Encouraged by their parents, they both grew up with a great respect for the creatures that shared their lives . . . and a healthy respect for the creatures’ ability to protect themselves.

Then the Shadow from the west lengthened. At first a hushed story told in whispers around the cooking fires by the elders, then encounters with peoples they had previously traded with who now claimed some sort of allegiance to a great Lord in a far western place called Mordor. The elders and parents seemed secretive to a youngster of five, but his own reassured him and his sister that there was nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, in the following months they began a slow migration southward, hugging the coast of the Eastern Sea and then the Inner Sea. Past the places of half remembered stories from before the time of men.

When he was about ten years old, the elders made the decision that they had come to a place they felt safe enough to settle in. This new area lay in a semi-arid region between the Great Dark Forests of the South and the coast of the Inner Sea. And it was here that he spent the next fifteen years of his life. The letters and numbers he had learned at his mother’s knee now proved useful to his family and tribe – increased contact with other wandering tribes meant increased trade, and he had the talent to keep the tallies.

At twenty-five, he traded for his first scroll, paying the traveling merchant extra for a quick lesson on how to read the peculiar script. It was only a short, illustrated treatise on locating wells and digging them; an unexciting piece of literature, save for the fact it showed him how such a thing was done in some other part of the world. And when he learned, from the same fellow that there were buildings dedicated to the storage of manuscripts and scrolls, which were open for those so inclined to read and study in, he resolved to see them. His wishes came to fruition in the next few years, and with the blessings of his parents and his other tribe members he set off, wandering north and west, seeking to increase his knowledge.

~*~

He had long been interested in the study of small birds – their habitats, social structure, migratory patterns, feeding preferences, capacity to adapt and learn new skills. He felt a certain kinship to them, many of them wanderers like himself.

It was at the Library in Rivendell where he first met Aiwendil (Radagast), and fell to comparing notes with him concerning the sighting of a certain species of hummingbird seen recently in the last few years in the area of Rhudaur near the Hithaeglir, and then again between the eastern side of the mountains and Rhosgobel.

Hearing that Aiwendil was bound for the southern lands, Rôg offered to accompany him. He had been down there, he told the old fellow, for a space of time in his younger years. It would be a profitable journey for the both of them – Aiwendil would have the services of someone familiar with the country, and Rôg would have the benefit of Aiwendil’s vast knowledge of birds and his keen eye for observation. That and Rôg would have the opportunity to make contact with his tribe after such a long time away.

During their stay in Harad, Aiwendil and he had assisted some of the native peoples who wished to throw off the last vestiges of Sauron’s influence, and helped them secure their freedom from an oppressive tribal chieftain.

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piosenniel's post - Rôg

The young man, Gaerion, knocked firmly on the smooth wood door, then stepped back a pace, hearing the footsteps from within draw nearer. He looked about the little courtyard in which he stood. It was lush with flowers; many of them he knew were of the sort which attracted little birds. He smiled, knowing the one who lived here would be pleased that he had managed to recall this bit of information. Gaerion had delivered many messages here and never gotten away yet without some small lesson on this or that.

Rôg peeked through the small, barred peephole in the door, wondering who had come for a visit so early in the morning. Gaerion! Fresh faced, his black livery spotless, boots gleaming from the polishing he must have given them just this morning. His grey eyes were clear, and shone, it seemed to Rôg, with a spirit of hope and the expectation of a life open to possibility. It was a welcome sight to Rôg’s eyes. There had been too many years, he thought, when hope lay under shadow and possibility was thwarted by despair.

‘Come in, come in!’ He opened the door wide and ushered Gaerion in, pointing towards the small table near the window where he’d just sat down to eat his morning meal. ‘There’s plenty,’ Rôg said, motioning to an empty chair as he sat back down in his own. ‘Fruit, cheese….and here, let me pour you a cup of wine. It’s from the south. Very light, very refreshing.’

‘What’s this?’ He took the slender roll of parchment from Gaerion, exchanging it for the basket of thick sliced bread he’d passed the young man. Rôg untied the thin ribbon and unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the writing; he smiled as he read the signature written boldly at the bottom. ‘From the King,’ Rôg said.

Gaerion nodded as he stuffed a fig into his mouth. He bit back a grin at the obviousness of this conclusion. A swig of wine followed, a delighted smile affirming the young man’s pleased approval. ‘Delivered one to the old fellow too.’ He looked chagrined as Rôg raised a brow at him. ‘Aiwendil, then,’ he said, making an apology of sorts. ‘The Elf fellow was there, too.’ Gaerion took another sip of wine. He supposed he should be discreet; the King’s man had not made mention of what the messages said, only that the King wanted them delivered as quickly as possible. But, he was young and curious, and so he asked Rôg outright what the King had written.

‘It’s about the land across the river. Mordor. The King has received a request for aid from some of those who live there. He’s sending a group of us to look into it and give them assistance.’ Rôg took a small cluster of fat red grapes and plucked one off. ‘Though I wonder what he thinks I can do.’ He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Most likely he wants me to keep the old fellow out of trouble.’ Rôg grinned at Gaerion who’d raised his brows in mock remonstrance of calling Aiwendil ‘the old fellow’.

Breakfast done, the farewells made, and Rôg returned to his chair to peruse the King’s letter again. In a hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page, Elessar had mentioned men of the East, slaves at one time in the Dark Land, were among those who had asked for assistance. And would Rôg, in addition to using his knowledge of wells, and irrigation systems, be sure to look to any special needs that those of his homeland might have. He frowned; the thought of any of his clan or kind, under the will and whips of the Dark Lord, and after him his as-cruel minions made him shudder despite the increasing warmth of the day.

It took very little time for him to pack. Other than a change of clothes and his pens and notebooks, Rôg had few essentials he couldn’t live without. He thrust his hand axe through his belt, to which he’d also secured his knife. Last of all was his walking stick; once in his hand he strode out the door of his little apartment and closed it securely. Gaerion had agreed to look after the little place while he was gone.

In a few moments he was at Aiwendil’s rooms, entering the door without a knock. The old fellow was bent over a book of maps his finger tracing the way for the Elf who stood at his side.

‘Well, I’m ready!’ he looked from one to the other of them as he banged his stick on the stone floor. His gaze settled on Aiwendil. ‘Just promise me this trip will involve no travel by water….that’s all I ask.’

Looks to be a great game! I'm very much looking forward to playing in it.

Here are my two Orc sisters. Will work on the post for them, and on the bio for the minor Mordor character soon.

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Undómë’s characters:

NAMES: Zagra and Mazhg, sisters

AGE: around 36 or so

RACE: Orc

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Zagra has a thick wooden club – part of a stout oak stave that once held a lance. Mazhg carries a spade she stole from one of the fields; she keeps the edges of the metal shovel sharp with a flint rock she has stashed in a battered leather pouch hanging from her shoulder. Both are strong, and fight like cats when they are cornered -- with nails and teeth and feet.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Despite her hard life, Mazhg is a bright woman, very wily, extremely suspicious, cautious around other people. Especially around males, whom she despises for the most part. She is fiercely protective of her sister. Zagra is what one might call a little ‘simple-minded’. Her mind tends to drift; she is not as wary of situations and people as is her sister. Mazhg keeps Zagra close to her, and will kill and has killed any who touch her or try to hurt her.

HISTORY: Zagra and Mazhg had just turned about 15 years old in 3019 III Age. The woman who gave birth to them died at their birth as had their triplet sister. They were raised on one of Mordor’s breeding farms. They worked hard in the fields from a young age; took care of the babies and littler children as they got older. That year, their fifteenth, they would have gone into the breeding sheds to become part of the great propagation program designed to supply Mordor with a continuous source of Orc warriors, workers, and breeders.

When Sauron fell and Mordor was made free by the King’s decree, Mazhg and Zagra joined in with a large band of Orcs who were staking out their claim to a part of Nurn for themselves. Now the Easterlings who were part of Mordor’s slave base were trying to eliminate the Orcs. There was to be a big battle between the two groups. Mazhg had decided this battle would not be to her and Zagra’s benefit; they would most likely be killed she thought. She and her sister had joined in with those Orcs who were fleeing from the main group to find a safer place to live.

‘Scared . . . big scared.’ Zagra’s voice, hushed and strained already, trailed off into silence. She leaned against Mazhg as her sister chopped at their shifts. Mazhg was shortening them with a knife she’d stolen from the cook shed, making them into what she hoped would pass for boys’ tunics.

‘I know you’re scared,’ Mazhg, whispered back, nuzzling Zagra’s cheek with her nose. I’m scared too! she thought to herself, though to her sister she spoke in an assured tone. ‘Things will be alright. You just stick to me . . .,’ she said, smiling at Zagra.

‘. . . like a pink tail on a rat!’ Zagra finished. She scooted around so that she could lean her back against her sister’s. ‘Tell me . . . tell me again, Mazhg. What we doing under old white face t’night.’

Though she’d heard it already several times, Zagra’s eyes went wide as Mazhg retold her story of stealing two pairs of breeches, each from two different sides of the camp. And how she’d managed to slip into the cook tent and the storage tent near it – to take a knife from the one, and dried meat and travel-bread from the other.

What Mazhg hadn’t made part of the adventurous tale was how one of the Uruk who was hanging about had spied her crawling out from under the back of the tent. And how he’d hit her hard with his club on the small of her back. The blow had sent her flying. She’d barely scrambled to her feet before he got to her. By some stroke of luck or his own laziness, he’d elected to hurl insults at her retreating form, rather than expend the energy to run her down. She expected he was most likely drunk. Quite drunk, from the smell of fermented mash spirits that hung in a thick cloud about him.

Many of the men were drinking. Getting up their courage for the coming battle against the Easterlings. In the distance, on the other side of the camp, she could see many little fires dotting the plain, and the shadowy forms of Orc men, big and small, wavering in the garish light. Drums, too. They beat loud and louder as the night progressed. A booming heartbeat, strong and mighty; savage it was meant to seem . . . to make the Easterlings’ blood run cold with fear.

Mazhg snickered. She was in no way fond of the Easterlings. But she hoped their knives were sharp and would slit the throat of every man-Orc. She brought her attention back to her sister.

‘Once we’re dressed like I told you, we’re going to sneak off on an adventure. Me and you. To a place where we’ll be safe. Together.’

‘Try this on, Zagra,’ she said, handing one of the shortened shifts to her sister. ‘Let it hang loose about you.’ Mazhg pulled her own on hastily, modeling it for Zagra. ‘Like this.’ She nodded in approval as Zagra stood before her. ‘Come here, now. Let’s put this pouch over your head.’ Mazhg flattened the leather strap that held the rough made pouch across Zagra’s chest. ‘This has a little skin of water in it, some meat and some bread. Now throw your blanket over your shoulders . . . like the boys do.’ Mazhg reached for the ends of the blanket scrap and tied them in a loose knot so that material fell about her sister’s form like a little cape. She handed Zagra her stick, telling her to hold tight to it.

Mazhg quickly got herself ready to go, tucking the knife into a raggedy sort of sash she’d tied about her middle. She picked up her spade, checking one last time in her own pouch for the sharpening stone.
With a quick smile of assurance, Mazhg took her sister’s hand firmly in her own and let her eyes dart about the nearly empty northern part of the camp she’d staked out as their little place. Most of the others who bedded down in that area were at the fires in the southern part of the camp.

The moon was bright on the eastern horizon. Fat and bulbous like some great swollen spider, it hung in the dark sky. Its light ate the little lights of the stars, swallowing whole it seemed those ones that had the ill luck to be near its web.

Hunched over, skittering like dark little bugs from one pool of shadow to another, the two sisters headed west. They hurried as fast as their legs would take them; away from the madness of the coming battle and toward the meeting place the loosely organised group of rebels had agreed on . . .

WEAPONS: Her planting stick; small hand scythe for harvesting grain – hangs from her belt by a leather cord; small sling and pouch of rocks for bringing down small animals.

APPEARANCE: 5’1”; thin, wiry. Once raven black hair now streaked heavily with grey, worn in a thick braid down her back, or in a bun at the nape of her neck. Dark brown eyes. Tanned complexion from work in the fields. Wrinkles. Keeps her tunic and long skirt as neat and clean as she is able. Piece of rope serves as a belt for the skirt. Pair of hand cobbled sandals of leather. Raggedy square of dark woven material she uses as a shawl

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Knows how to keep her nose out of trouble; minds her own business as she can. A kindly, no-nonsense sort of woman with a helping hand for those who need it. She is a story-teller and has been known to sing on occasion when the hard cider jug is passed her way.

HISTORY: Taken at the age of eleven, with her family, from their little farm in the eastern reaches of North Ithilien. Father and mother are now deceased. She hasn’t seen her two older brothers, Bran and Nevan, in twenty years - since they were sent to another plantation on the southern edges of Nurn.

__________________Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .

This is my main character's profile. I'll work on the other profile and post as soon as I can.

Should I put the other profile and the beginning post in this same box?

Tevildo's Main Character:

NAME: Dorran

AGE: 39

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: As one of the Riders of Rohan, Dorran bears a sturdy broadsword that was given to him by Eomer, whom he served under during the War of the Ring. He also cherishes a hand carved bow and a jambiya, a dagger with a dual-edged curved blade that is seemingly of eastern origin. The latter were passed down to him by his long deceased father.

APPEARANCE: Tall and slender as a youth, Dorran has blossomed into a man with considerable physical gifts. He has a shock of brown curly hair, skin that is darker than most of his fellow Rohirrim, and earnest brown eyes. He still has the same serious expression and somber demeanor that he did in his teens. Although fairly good looking, he rarely thinks about his physical appearance. Even while serving the King at court, Dorran prefers to dress in simple servicable fashion, wearing a plain doublet over his tunic, along with high boots and breeches. In battle he adds a leather vest reinforced with chain mail.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Dorran's personality seemingly matches his quiet and unassuming outer appearance. He has more confidence than he did as a youth but still feels no need to push himself forward in front of others. He is patient and has considerable physical courage, having faced many foes on the field of battle. Yet it is still difficult for him to talk about his own past: the death of most of his family at the hands of Orcs and the years he and his sister spent as slaves in Mordor.

There are three people whom he feels deeply about: his wife Athwen, his sister Creide, and an elderly healer named Leod, who has been almost like a father to Dorran since the age of sixteen. He would give his own life for any of them. His love for his wife means everything to him, but sometimes he has trouble expressing that affection in words. He tends to keep some of his worries to himself and finds it difficult to talk about personal problems. Despite his silence, he is a loyal and concerned husband whose affections run deep.

Dorran has many skills that are of potential use in the Fellowship. He is a trained fighter and excellent rider who has spent much time caring for and training horses. Perhaps most importantly, he knows a great deal about the slave plantations and geography of Mordor.

HISTORY: Dorran and his sister Creide came to the village of Wulfham when they were tiny children, brought there from some identified place that lay towards the east by Raven, an elderly maiden aunt. Neither of the trio ever spoke of what had become of the childrens' parents. Whatever difficulties had befallen the family, they kept the story to themselves.

The aunt was a poor seamstress, barely holding body and soul together. Both Dorran and Creide had to be sent out in service at a very young age. After helping out in the households of several farmers in the region, the children found their way into the employ of Lord Aldwulf: Creide as a scullery maid and Dorran in the stables. With the passing of their elderly aunt, the march-warden and his lady had taken pity on the two and let them bed down in a tiny cellar room that faced onto the courtyard. The children were well behaved and generally accepted by the other villagers, though some wondered where they had come from. The Lord of Wulfham was a kind and honorable man and treated Dorran and his sister with much kindness.

When just sixteen years old, Dorran repaid his lord's generosity by volunteering for a dangerous mission: to ride to Edoras for help after a threatened Orc attack on the village of Wulfham. See Outracing the Flames RPG in the Shire. In the company of other volunteers, Dorran exhibited considerable courage and resourcefulness. This dangerous trek was also where he met his bride-to-be. Athwen's village had been attacked and destroyed by Orcs. She and the elderly healer Leod were the only two villagers surviving. Dorran eventually volunteered to join the Riders and serve under Eomer during the War of the Ring, but he returned to marry his beloved Athwen in the sixth year of the Fourth Age. Gradually, over the years, Dorran confided to his wife his experiences as a slave in Mordor and the death of his parents and brother.

He has also risen in favor with the King, initially taking care of the mearas at the royal household in Edoras. These steeds would even allow Dorran to ride and exercise them, which is most unusual. In recent year, the King has used Dorran as an emissary to the court of Minas Tirith when imporant matters had to be discussed.

Dorran and Athwen have been married thirteen years. While their union has been a happy one, it is marked by one sadness. Dorran had hoped for a son--a boy whom he could teach to ride and hunt, but their marriage has not yet been blessed with children.

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Tevildo's minor character

NAME: Azhar

AGE: 12 years old

RACE: Slave girl originally from the east

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Her hands and nails and whatever she can manage to defend herself. She also carries a slingshot and rocks in her pocket. However, her best defense has always been her ability to charm her way into the most unlikely hearts.

APPEARANCE: Azhar has a mass of curly black ringlets falling down her back, but these are usually tangled and matted. She is so scrawny that her ribs stick out and her clothes hang limply from her frame. Although her tanned olive face is dirty and her shift torn, she is an extraordinarily attractive girl. Her warm brown eyes attest to her lively mind and stubborn determination.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTH/WEAKNESSES

In a small world that alternates between terrible cruelty and complete indifference, Azhar is a tiny spot of brightness. Orphaned at a young age, the girl simply refuses to lay down and die. She is bright and resourceful and has managed to survive through the generosity of other slaves, her own intelligence, and her ability to manipulate others. She seemingly does not harbor the deep anger or bitterness characteristic of so many other slaves. Her duties are comparatively easy. She conveys buckets of water to the slaves in the field and runs other small errands for the guards. Her name means "flower" in one of the eastern tongues, although she does not even know this. She is truly a tough cactus flower blooming in an arid desert.

Yet this tale of rugged endurance does have a darker underside. Although Azhar does not possess a mean bone in her body, she does what she must to survive. She would never betray a close friend, yet she lies and steals with cold calculation. Even as a little child, she was aware of her good looks and charm and exploited these for all they were worth. With her extraordinary ability to soften even the coldest heart simply by walking into a room, Azhar has even been known to secure treats and special privileges from guards. Moreover, she has seen horrors that no twelve-year old should have witnessed and understands what will happen if she fails to curry favor. If she remains on the plantation until adulthood, she will likely lose all sense of right and wrong and turn into a hard hearted manipulator willing to use any means at her disposal to better her situation. Dreaming of a better life, she is determined to escape or die in the trying.

HISTORY:

She has none, at least if she remains on the plantation. Azhar is a child without a real future or a past.

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Tevildo's post - Dorran

Dorran carefully threaded his way through the crowded streets and byways, reining in his mount so as not to collide with any of the citizens of Minas Tirith who were going about their business. The slow pace did not suit him. He was anxious to get home to his wife and discuss with her what had happened at court. He glanced down at his side to make sure the message from Elessar still sat securely in his pouch.

Dorran and his wife were supposed to be returning home in a few days. He had come to Minas Tirith as a messenger of the King of Rohan. Eomer had asked him to present four prized stallions as a gift of friendship to the people of Gondor as well as to convey a personal letter to Elessar. Dorran had made sure the horses were settled in the stables and that the king's servants understood how to train and care for them. This afternoon, Dorran had been formally received at court. He expected to deliver his message and be courteously dismissed to travel back to Edoras. He had been totally unprepared for what happened next.

The King had invited him to join a special band leaving the next day on a matter of supreme importance to both Gondor and Rohan. Dorran was not surprised that Gondor had enlisted his aid. There was a personal understanding between Eomer and Elessar that messengers to either court could be called upon to help when urgent needs arose during their stay.

What surprised Dorran was the nature of Elessar's request. The King had asked him to join a mission to Mordor, helping a band of slaves who had escaped from a plantation found a new community on the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Even more alarming was the fact that his wife was also invited to join the Fellowship. Although Athwen had amazing gifts as a healer and would be an asset on any mission of mercy, his wife lacked skill with weapons and often shrank back when he described to her some minor skirmish in battle from which he had escaped unscathed.

It was not only fear for Athwen's safety that made Dorran hesitent. More than any other member of the Fellowship, the Rider of Rohan knew just how dangerous it was to try and cross the Ash Plain and establish a settlement on Gorgorth. He had spent his youth as a slave in Nurn and made the treacherous journey out of Mordor in company with his sister. Once before, in the years immediately after the fall of Sauron, Dorran had returned to the Plains of Gorgoroth to try and clean out some of the vilest of the Orc gangs. His knowlege of Mordor, its twisted hills and lava-filled plains, had been one of the chief reasons that Elessar had included him in the new mission.

Dorran found it difficult to sort out his own feelings. Part of him feared a return to Mordor. The physical dangers of the trek were considerable but even those paled beside his own dark dreams of childhood. If those dreams afflicted him in Rohan after so many years, how much more likely were they to claim him if he journeyed deep into Mordor? Sauron might be dead and gone, but not for one moment did Dorran believe that the land had been cured of all its ills. Too much darkness remained.

Still, he could not turn his back on this mission and the possibility of helping slaves find a new life. He had sworn once that he would do all within his power to free others from the bondage that he and his family had endured. What better occasion than this? Nor could be deny his wife the chance to accept the king's commission. She might be uncertain at first, but Dorran was convinced that Athwen would never forgive herself if she passed up this chance to lend a hand of healing. It was up to him to help her believe in herself enough to accept this new challenge. There was no question what he must do.

With these thoughts reverberating through his mind, Dorran raced down the street and bounded into the house, running forward to sweep up Athwen within his arms. He leaned down and kissed her on top of the head; his words came tumbling out in excitement, "You have heard the news? The Fellowship of the Fourth Age..... It will not be easy, but how can we say no? There is so much need. Great need, and you and I will face it together just as we did long ago when we travelled the road to Edoras to secure help for the villagers who were threatened by orcs. Come over by the fire, and sit with me. We will talk."

Dorran gently led his wife over to the fireplace. They sat down near each other on the floor and spoke at length, sharing their hopes and fears. By the time the flames in the pit had dwindled to silver ash, their bargain had been made and sealed. Both Athwen and Dorran had agreed to give their consent to the king and journey to the distant land of Mordor in hopes of bringing help to the slaves.

What a profile. I can almost smell those Orcs! (Although soft spoken, Dorran is not fond of Orcs.)

Maybe Athwen can get those female Orcs to take a bath?

__________________ Now Tevildo was a mighty cat--the mightiest of all--and possessed of an evil spirit,...and he was in Melko's constant following; and that cat had all cats subject to him, and he and his subjects were the chasers and getters of meat for Melko's table.

The profile for my minor character - Granny Brenna, the slave escapee, is now done.

~ U

__________________Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .

Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.

Posts: 5,228

Here is my character's character bio. I will get the post written soon.

-- Folwren

_____________________

Folwren's Major Character:

NAME: Athwen

AGE: 39

RACE: Man, of the Rohirrim

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: None, generally. On this trip, however, she’ll carry a long knife, but nothing more, for she never learned the arts of war or how to use any weapon.

APPEARANCE: Short of stature - 5 feet and no inches. Slender and small. She has not lost her shape from child bearing, for she hasn’t had any children. Clear, dark and brilliantly blue eyes, waist length, wavy, golden blond hair, and a lightly tanned face.

PERSONALITIES/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Athwen is a gentle, calm woman, acquainted with danger, hardships, and intense sorrow, but having lived through all of them, has come out stronger and better able to meet the world. She is very observant of other people’s feelings and is able to relate to many different people. This is a good thing, as her husband, Dorran, doesn’t always like to speak much about his feelings, and sometimes Athwen has to really look for them.

She is optimistic most of the time and does her best to stay cheerful and keep everyone around here cheerful, too. Her personality is naturally bright and bubbly, and though that has been tamed by her past and her years, she is still pleasant.

Of course, there are times when she gets sad and withdrawn, at when that happens, she isn’t very talkative, nor very out going. These lapses come from dreams and feelings from her past, which was stormy and very difficult. They pass and after a few days, no one can tell they ever came.

HISTORY: Athwen was born twenty years before the War of the Ring, the middle child of five kids. She lived in a small hamlet somewhere in the realm of Rohan. There she lived her entire life, never leaving the area, until she was sixteen. Only a couple months after her sixteenth birth-date, ravaging orcs of Saruman came through and burned her village, killing everybody. Only she and an elderly healer survived. The healer hid beneath his home - Athwen was gone riding at the time of the attack. When she returned, she found the village in flames, and all the people dead.

Athwen would have died there, too, if a group of young riders had not passed that way. They took compassion on her and took her and Leod (the healer) into their company of riders. Dorran was a young man part of that group of riders. He was only a few months older than she. (This is also told about in Outracing the Flames RPG.)

She rode with them all the way to Edoras. She lived near that city in the stronghold of an Eorl of the Mark for the next several years. While she was there, before, during and a little bit after the War of the Ring, she studied under Leod and learned the arts of healing. In the year 6 of the 4th age, she and Dorran were married.

Since then, thirteen years have passed. Athwen has had no children, and the couple has accepted that she probably never will. Dorran works under the King Eomer and Athwen spends her time doctoring the poorer people of Edoras (she doesn’t worry about pay too much since Dorran can easily support her and her practice without any children to feed and clothe). She loves working with children especially, and with doing so, has gotten very good at setting bones and tending nasty, infected cuts and sores.

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Folwren's post - Athwen

“Mistress Athwen, will it be alright?” the little boy asked.

Athwen smiled sweetly without looking up from her work. “Yes, it will be fine, so long as you do as you’re told and don’t touch it.” She gently swabbed at the cut with a clean, wet cloth. “That’s a nasty scratch you got yourself, lad,” she said. “How did you manage it?”

“My brother got me with a stick,” the boy replied. With his unwounded arm, he drew his sleeve across his nose. “Mum can’t stand the sight of blood and it hurt something awful. Are you sure it’ll be alright?”

Athwen nodded again to his urgent question. “Yes. Especially after I wrap it up. What was your brother doing with a sharp pointed stick?” She knew better than to add ‘he could have killed you with something like that!’, though it was obviously clear from the cut the child’s stick had inflicted. She asked herself mentally if all Gondorian boys were so violent.

“We were playing battle. Our father fought years ago in a great war and he tells about killing trolls and all kind of things. Berl was supposed to be the troll and I was Father because I’m smaller, but he didn’t like being the troll and he got mad.” Athwen nodded understandingly. She held the arm gently in her hand while she put down the wet cloth and picked up a roll of bandaging cloth. “Will that hurt?” her young patient demanded, stiffening. “When you wrap it around it, won’t it hurt?”

“Actually, it will feel good. I promise you it won’t hurt. Now, hold your arm out for me. I need both my hands to do this.” The boy obeyed and Athwen wrapped the arm from the wrist to nearly the elbow. She tied it on, securely but gently. “There you go, my man,” she said, stepping back. “You’re all patched up.” She smiled at him before turning away to talk to the boy’s mother, sitting nearby. “I’ve bandaged it up. The wrap will stay, so long as he doesn’t touch it. It will not stay on tonight when he sleeps, though, unless it is re-wrapped and re-tied carefully and he doesn’t toss and turn much in his sleep.”

“Will he be alright?” the woman asked anxiously, standing up.

“Yes, he’ll be fine. I cleaned it out and you came to me directly, so no infection had already settled in. I suggest you take away the sharp play things from your boys, though. You might have worse things to handle next time. Tomorrow morning, wash it again with soap and clean water. If you have any oil from the olive or any lavender, put that on it, and then wrap it with new cloth. Keep it wrapped gently until it scabs, and then be sure that he doesn’t pick at it.”

“We will. Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Athwen replied with a smile. She nodded goodbye and waved to the boy as the two of them left.

Athwen turned to wash her hands and then clean up her work place. She was fastening the lid of the box with bandages and ointments when a knock came at the door. Her hands paused in their work, and then with a sigh, she stood up.

“I didn’t want another patient just now. I want Dorran.” But she still prepared a smile as she opened the door.

Instead of a young mother holding the hand of a crying child as Athwen half expected, there stood on the doorstep a young man wearing the black and white livery of the Citadel. She blinked in surprise.

“Lady Athwen?” the man asked. She nodded, expectant. “I was to deliver this to you.” He extended a letter and she reached out to get it.

“Thank you!” she said. He bowed and turned to walk away. She watched him go until he went out the gate into the road, then her eyes turned towards the letter. On the front of it her name had been written in black, swirling ink. Turning it over, she saw and recognized the impression of the king’s ring in the sealing wax. Again she had cause to blink her dark lashes at it.

Without looking up away from the letter, she closed the door and walked to the same chair that the boy’s mother had sat in. She lowered herself into it and then gently broke the wax. The fine, cream colored parchment made a soft crinkling sound as she opened it. The king’s seal was at the top and the letter that ran below it. She read the entire thing over once. . .twice, and then she put it down on her knees. Her blue eyes scanned the room in front of her. They passed over the table and chairs where she and her husband ate, the cupboards where dishes and food was kept, the pitcher of water standing on the counter, and the door leading back to another room. Then she picked up the letter again and read it a third time.

‘. . .to go with the fellowship to cure and to heal as your skills are required along the way. . .’

“To free the slaves and help them live on their own?” Athwen whispered. “He wants me to go? Clearly that’s what he’s asking. . .” She sat upright and refolded the letter. It would wait until Dorran returned and they could talk it over. His name was written on the list beneath the letter, but she didn’t know if he had accepted. They would discuss it when he returned home. Would he accept the mission himself? She knew what he had gone through in his past and she also knew how horrible it was for old memories to be stirred up. If he did not go, he would not want her to go, either, and she would not wish to go alone anyway.

She stood up and put the letter on the table. There it would wait until Dorran returned. Athwen put her hands to work, cleaning the house that was practically entirely clean already. Her mind turned the contents of the letter over and over again. Alone, though, she could not make up her mind of whether she wanted to go or not. But was it even a request? Or was it an order?

Whatever it was, it would wait until Dorran was home.

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Folwren's Minor Character:

NAME: Kwell Dunfire

AGE: 13

RACE: Unknown, by both of us.

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: A heavy, weighty stick about as tall as he is.

APPEARANCE: Kwell, having not yet had his real growth spurt yet, is still only 4’10”. He is built squarely with short legs and a short, powerful looking (even though he’s still a boy) torso. His arms, of course, have not yet developed the muscles of a man. His skin is dark, almost the olive looking color of skin, dark brown eyes that sometimes look black, sharp nose, small mouth, often pulled down on one side into a scowl. He has brown, very straight hair cut short.

PERSONALITIES: Kwell is drawn back within himself – quiet and slow to communicate with anyone he hasn’t known long. He is swift to anger and very quickly becomes impatient and harsh, and while he does trap it and keep it back, it is very clearly visible on his face and the way he moves and reacts to people around him. He rarely smiles, and never laughs. Whether or not he has a weak spot and may somehow become gentle in some way towards something or someone, I don’t know.

HISTORY: Born into slavery in Mordor, Kwell has worked all his life in the fields under the supervision and whip of orc slave drivers. There he learned to become angry, and to store it, and to pack it in and to let it out stealthily and in ways that would not get him into more trouble. He remembers none of his family, being taken away (sold) when he was just a toddler.

Kwell has lived on the same plantation all his life. He is unfriendly to most people there, but a few of the slaves he did attach himself with. One was an older man, intelligent, sharp, and quiet. But not long ago, he was killed at the whim of the one of the orcs. He was getting old and couldn’t do as much work. It didn’t matter if he died. Kwell was badly affected and became even more angry and hateful towards the orcs and even the other slaves. It was partially because of this man slave’s death that he joined the desperate group of slaves who tried to escape.

Well, if you feel you can handle a minor character, Folwren, I don't see why not. Just: if you ever find you are unable of carrying him along and/or for any reason he kinda 'gets in the way' (which I doubt, as a minor character), would you be adverse to him meeting his death? (Thought I'd ask, just in case...)

But yes, I'm fine with it as long as Child is.

I have a question for you, Undome, about your minor character - is she an ex-slave as in part of the gang? Because if so, it would be well if you could explain that very briefly. I know minor characters only need brief bios, but since Khamir will have to have some kind of relationship with her, it would be nice to know.

The gang was kinda a rough bunch, so I that's why I'm so curious. There's no problem with your character as long as you find a way for her to fit into the gang.

Otherwise she can simply be a slave escapee.

Oh, and (this is to everyone) please say something if there is any confusion about the difference between 'ex-slaves' and 'slave escapees.'

Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.

Posts: 5,228

Quote:

Originally Posted by Durelin

Well, if you feel you can handle a minor character, Folwren, I don't see why not. Just: if you ever find you are unable of carrying him along and/or for any reason he kinda 'gets in the way' (which I doubt, as a minor character), would you be adverse to him meeting his death? (Thought I'd ask, just in case...)

But yes, I'm fine with it as long as Child is.

I'll wait until Child gets back, then, because she was the one who said no.

To answer your question (very reasonable question, too) - adverse, no. Reluctant, I would be, unless I so poorly developed him that I didn't care. But orders would be orders and I wouldn't not do it. I tend to like most of my characters, so of course there'd have to be some reluctance to do it, but I would if it came to it.

Does that satisfy you? Or will you change your mind now? Really, I'm at your mercy concerning this. I won't do it without both of your girls' permission.

-- Folwren

__________________
A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. - C.S. Lewis

Too lazy to expand the bio -- will make Granny (EDITED) a slave escapee

Pio - please change me on the lists.

~ U

__________________Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .

Well, as long as you have a bio and first post that works out, I believe so! Good to see you again, Oro.

Also, we'll have to discuss a minor character, and any times when you will be absent over the course of the game. We ask that everyone play a minor character, because we want every group well represented in the game. So, it is up to you if you play another ex-slave as your minor character, a slave-escapee, or an Orc.

Folwren - I was just curious as to your feelings about it. I am not looking to kill off any of your characters because I am bloodthirsty (bloodthirsty I may be, but I do have self-control), I simply wanted to know in case we run into any trouble with you being absent from playing either one of your characters.

Also, Firefoot, your choice of minor character is still up to you, as well.

Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.

Posts: 5,228

Quote:

Originally Posted by Firefoot

Folwren, why so reluctant to kill of characters? It's fun. In a depressing sort of way.

Because! What's the darn good of developing a character and then killing him, unless there is some great lesson to learn? And even then, it's devistating! I've cried for hours (well, not for HOURS, but I cried a lot) over killing a simply wonderful character. . .and there was a good reason for killing her. It was sad, and I don't always like sad. Not when it comes to killing a poor person that I created. (I would hate being God.)

Now, Durelin and Child - don't get the wrong impression. I will be sure to write this character with the knowledge in mind that I may have to end up killing him, and I probably won't cry for him. Okay?

-- Folwren

__________________
A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. - C.S. Lewis

Sorry to jump in in the middle of a conversation, just wanted to check-in and say that I am currently working up Carl's bio. Once that is done I will try to catch up ASAP with the thread here! My, but it seems to be growing rapidly!

Firefoot: I know... I'm looking forwards to "ex-slaving" with you..Hahaha.

Quote:

Well, as long as you have a bio and first post that works out, I believe so! Good to see you again, Oro.

Also, we'll have to discuss a minor character, and any times when you will be absent over the course of the game. We ask that everyone play a minor character, because we want every group well represented in the game. So, it is up to you if you play another ex-slave as your minor character, a slave-escapee, or an Orc.

You too, Durelin.

I'll start writing my main character description + post now. As for the minor character: I will write a BIO for a slave-escapee, if that is alright.

As for the times I'll be absent: May I come back to you later on that?

Thanks for letting me play,
Oro

__________________
I lost my old sig...somehow....*screams and shouts* ..............What is this?- Now isn't this fun? >_<
.....and yes, the jumping mouse is my new avatar. ^_^

Just wanted to check in and see how the game is progressing. Right now I am working on my profile and first post. It is not clear to me what the first post for the orcs should be. Should my first post be my decision to join the rebel orcs and set out on the trail going north or should it be something else? My minor character will be a female orc if that is okay.

I am looking forward to playing in this game with so many great writers,

My vacation times....mostly I won't be on vacation, but I will be gone later in August to start college. That will be about August 23- 28. It may take a few days to get settled in and start posting again--not too long I hope.

- Regin

__________________
For once I myself saw with my own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a bottle, and when the boys said to her: 'Sibyl, what do you want?' she replied, 'I want to die.'"

I was planning to write my first Orc-post starting the night prior to the rebel Orcs leaving the group.

Mazhg has heard some of the women talking about getting away from the main Orc group. They don't want to be killed in the nearing battle. The plan she heard is to slip away in the early, even pre-dawn hours, in small groups of ones and two's maybe and meet up somewhere a good ways away, towards where the sun sets, from the main group.

Your male Orc could be waiting for the rest of us like an advance guard or could be just coming along like my two sisters.

How does that sound?

~ U

__________________Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .

__________________ Now Tevildo was a mighty cat--the mightiest of all--and possessed of an evil spirit,...and he was in Melko's constant following; and that cat had all cats subject to him, and he and his subjects were the chasers and getters of meat for Melko's table.

For my main character, I'll play a female ex-slave. However, I'm still quite early into the writing process of this character, and there still might be a chance it'll turn into a man in the end, though I hope that won't happen. (Sounds rather odd, I know, but determining the gender of a character is most definitely the hardest thing about this process... )

For a minor character, I'd love to play a male Orc.

Hopefully, bios and post will be up by the end of the week!

I look forward to gaming with all of you!

Thanks,
Nova

__________________Scully: Homer, we're going to ask you a few simple yes or no questions. Do you understand? Homer: Yes. (Lie dectector blows up)